Mysterious Mr. Sabin by E. Phillips Oppenheim (read books for money TXT) 📕

“Mrs. J. B. Peterson,
“Lenox,
“Mass., U.S.A.”

“I will do so with pleasure,” he remarked, slipping it into his dressing-case.

“And remember this,” Felix remarked, glancing out at the platform along which they were gliding. “You are a marked man. Disguise is useless for you. Be ever on your guard. You and I have been enemies, but after all you are too great a man to fall by the hand of a German assassin. Farewell!”

“I will thank you for your caution and remember it,” Mr. Sabin answered. “Farewell!”

Felix raised his hat, and Mr. Sabin returned the salute. The whistle sounded. Felix stepped out on to the platform.

“You will not forget the letter?” he asked

“I will deliver it in person without fail,” Mr. Sabin answered.

It was their third day out, and Mr. Sabin was enjoying the voyage very much indeed. The Calipha was a small boat sailing to Boston instead of New York, and contemptuously termed by the ocean-going public an old tub. She carried, consequently, only seven passengers besides Mr. Sabin, and it had taken him but a very short time to decide that of those seven passengers not one was interested in him or his affairs. He had got clear away, for the present at any rate, from all the complications and dangers which had followed upon the failure of his great scheme. Of course by this time the news of his departure and destination was known to every one whom his movements concerned. That was almost a matter of course, and realising even the impossibility of successful concealment, Mr. Sabin had made no attempt at any. He had given the name of Sabin to the steward, and had secured the deck’s cabin for his own use. He chatted every day with the captain, who treated him with respect, and in reply to a question from one of the stewards who was a Frenchman, he admitted that he was the Duc de Souspennier, and that he was travelling incognito only as a whim. He was distinctly popular with every one of the seven passengers, who were a little doubtful how to address him, but whom he succeeded always in putting entirely at their ease. He entered, too, freely into the little routine of steamer life. He played shuffleboard for an hour or more every morning, and was absolutely invincible at the game; he brought his golf clubs on deck one evening after dinner, and explained the manner of their use to an admiring little circle of the seven passengers, the captain, and doctor. He rigorously supported the pool each day, and he even took a hand at a mild game of poker one wet afternoon, when timidly invited to do so by Mr. Hiram Shedge, an oil merchant of Boston. He had in no way the deportment or manner of a man who had just passed through a great crisis, nor would any one have gathered from his conversation or demeanour that he was the head of one of the greatest houses in Europe and a millionaire. The first time a shadow crossed his face was late one afternoon, when, coming on deck a little behind the others after lunch, he found them all leaning over the starboard bow, gazing intently at some object a little distance off, and at the same time became aware that the engines had been put to half-speed.

He was strolling towards the little group, when the captain, seeing him, beckoned him on to the bridge.

“Here’s something that will interest you, Mr. Sabin,” he called out. “Won’t you step this way?”

Mr. Sabin mounted the iron steps carefully but with his eyes turned seawards; a large yacht of elegant shape and painted white from stern to bows was lying-to about half a mile off flying signals.

Mr. Sabin reached the bridge and stood by the captain’s side.

“A pleasure yacht,” he remarked. “What does she want?”

“I shall know in a moment,” the captain answered with his glass to his eye. “She flew a distress signal at first for us to stand by, so I suppose she’s in trouble. Ah! there it goes. ‘Mainshaft broken,’ she says.”

“She doesn’t lie like it,” Mr. Sabin remarked quietly.

The captain looked at him with a smile.

“You know a bit about yachting too,” he said, “and, to tell you the truth, that’s just what I was thinking.”

“Holmes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask her what she wants us to do.”

The signalman touched his hat, and the little row of flags ran fluttering up in the breeze.

“She signals herself the Mayflower, private yacht, owner Mr. James Watson of New York,” he remarked. “She’s a beautiful boat.”

Mr. Sabin, who had brought his own glasses, looked at her long and steadily.

“She’s not an American built boat, at any rate,” he remarked.

An answering signal came fluttering back. The captain opened his book and read it.

“She’s going on under canvas,” he said, “but she wants us to take her owner and his wife on board.”

“Are you compelled to do so?” Mr. Sabin asked.

The captain laughed.

“Not exactly! I’m not expected to pick up passengers in mid ocean.”

“Then I shouldn’t do it,” Mr. Sabin said. “If they are in a hurry the Alaska is due up to-day, isn’t she? and she’ll be in New York in three days, and the Baltimore must be close behind her. I should let them know that.”

“Well,” the captain answered, “I don’t want fresh passengers bothering just now.”

The flags were run up, and the replies came back as promptly. The captain shut up his glass with a bang.

“No getting out of them,” he remarked to Mr. Sabin. “They reply that the lady is nervous and will not wait; they are coming on board at once—for fear I should go on, I suppose. They add that Mr. Watson is the largest American holder of Cunard stock and a director of the American Board, so have them we must—that’s pretty certain. I must see the purser.”

He descended, and Mr. Sabin, following him, joined the little group of passengers. They all stood together watching the long rowing boat which was coming swiftly towards them through the smooth sea. Mr. Sabin explained to them the messages which had passed, and together they admired the disabled yacht.

Mr. Sabin touched the first mate on the arm as he passed.

“Did you ever see a vessel like that, Johnson?” he remarked.

The man shook his head.

“Their engineer is a fool, sir!” he declared scornfully. “Nothing but my own eyes would make me believe there’s anything serious the matter with her shaft.”

“I agree with you,” Mr. Sabin said quietly.

The boat was now within hailing distance. Mr. Sabin leaned down over the side and scanned its occupants closely. There was nothing in the least suspicious about them. The man who sat in the stern steering was a typical American, with thin sallow face and bright eyes. The woman wore a thick veil, but she was evidently young, and when she stood up displayed a figure and clothes distinctly Parisian. The two came up the ladder as though perfectly used to boarding a vessel in mid ocean, and the lady’s nervousness was at least not apparent. The captain advanced to meet them, and gallantly assisted the lady on to the deck.

“This is Captain Ackinson, I presume,” the man remarked with extended hand. “We are exceedingly obliged to you, sir, for taking us off. This is my wife, Mrs. James B. Watson.”

Mrs. Watson raised her veil, and disclosed a dark, piquant face with wonderfully bright eyes.

“It’s real nice of you, Captain,” she said frankly. “You don’t know how good it is to feel the deck of a real ocean-going steamer beneath your feet after that little sailing boat of my husband’s. This is the very last time I attempt to cross the Atlantic except on one of your steamers.”

“We are very glad to be of any assistance,” the captain answered, more heartily than a few minutes before he would have believed possible. “Full speed ahead, John!”

There was a churning of water and dull throb of machinery restarting. The little rowing boat, already well away on its return journey, rocked on the long waves. Mr. Watson turned to shout some final instructions. Then the captain beckoned to the purser.

“Mr. Wilson will show you your state rooms,” he remarked. “Fortunately we have plenty of room. Steward, take the baggage down.”

The lady went below, but Mr. Watson remained on deck talking to the captain. Mr. Sabin strolled up to them.

“Your yacht rides remarkably well, if her shaft is really broken,” he remarked.

Mr. Watson nodded.

“She’s a beautifully built boat,” he remarked with enthusiasm. “If the weather is favourable her canvas will bring her into Boston Harbour two days after us.”

“I suppose,” the captain asked, looking at her through his glass, “you satisfied yourself that her shaft was really broken?”

“I did not, sir,” Mr. Watson answered. “My engineer reported it so, and, as I know nothing of machinery myself, I was content to take his word. He holds very fine diplomas, and I presume he knows what he is talking about. But anyway Mrs. Watson would never have stayed upon that boat one moment longer than she was compelled. She’s a wonderfully nervous woman is Mrs. Watson.”